This isn’t an easy thing to write, especially to you.  You and I have been through it that is for sure and there is so much between us now I can’t imagine you changing so much I wouldn’t know you anymore.  I first want to tell you that I am sorry about that person who I let knock you around and I am not talking about me for a change.  I should have left that person sooner, but my inability to see past the fixing has been an issue for a long time.  You haven’t really caused the trouble for me, its me who causes the trouble for you.  I gave you what I thought you wanted not what I knew you needed and in a way you paid me back making me slower and less able to fix the problems I created.  You know that I love the parts of you that are the most feminine and significant in this society.  The curves that you give me to share with the world are strong, as I am strong.  Its just in the last few years when mortality became something that I really had to face that I realize we don’t really know each other and there is still so much to learn.  I have recently undertaken talking to someone who knows the most about this stuff and its with that person’s help that I am realizing that I need to give you, and me, a break.  I put so much pressure on you to be something you cannot change overnight.

Surgery was my go to answer for so long but I don’t think I really understood what that would mean to you, and your longevity.  You deserve better than that.  You know I am not stupid, just short sighted and emotionally inept in some cases so I just pile in the good stuff to make us feel better in times of grief and strife.  But in the long run, it ended up being bad for both of us.  Now I see that I need to make some changes to how we exist so that we can do that for the long haul.  Our relationship has always been about feeling better in the moment and not considering what the road ahead would be like, especially if we damaged our chances of being well because we chose to feel better in that moment.  I want you to be healthy and I want you to be free to move as you need to.  I understand so much more now.  That I need to nourish you with good, forgive myself for the bad and just let us be organically well. 

I promise from here on in not to feed you the latest Dr. Oz fad, to give you good things and to make better choices.  I pledge to give us more of what we want and need and less of what we don’t.  I promise to move around with you and keep you straight and also to give you rest when you need it.  I need you to promise to be here for me, to help me stand up straight and stay strong.  I know I have been filling you with western toxicity under the guise of making us stronger together.  But I think some eastern answers should not be overlooked.  You should know that I have a plan to adorn you, again, with permanent ink to show you and I guess the rest of the world that we made it this far and together we should be able to make it another 35 years or so, maybe longer if I keep my promises to you.  Either way I want you to know that I don’t hate you, even though I talk about how important it is to me to change you.  That is more about society’s judgement than my own desire.  You may not be the picture of beauty and health, but you are strong and you are able, and after all we have been through, that is really saying something.

First the bus crash happened. 16 young people killed at the hands of a drowsy transport truck driver. How that triggered something deep in me, that sadness, that need to be there in that body strewn field and help when there was nothing I could have done. It was April and your birthday was coming soon. You were back in the hospital already. You were a former insurance adjuster administrator, comfortable talking about vehicle wrecks. I thought this would be an interesting conversation we could have as adults. How tragic and how awful, but somehow palatable if we could talk about it in scientific way, separate the sad from the facts and dissect them. But by then to be honest you were already pretty gone. Able to know that you were sad and angry about the circumstances of the crash but a little deeper in your own head and not able to come back to that adult place where we could talk. You mostly spoke of your nurses, and how they made you smile, you talked about your visitors and that was pretty much the most you could muster. You repeated a lot of the same conversations, but you never lost your ability to berate me, or to make me feel lesser in some way. How I always wanted to ask you if you had wished it was me and not Marc that had died. But I thought it too cruel a question and never did. Plus, selfishly, there was probably a little fear in me as to what your answer might have been.

So yes, you were back in the hospital at that time. I was glad because at least you were eating better and had attention. Someone to talk to, something positive. That was the second time you had fallen or had gone to the hospital that year because of a fall or not being able to get in or out of bed. It was hard to be this far away and know that something could happen. You had a neighbor visitor at home occasionally, but she was there mostly for her own good it seemed. To prove she was a great person for dealing with you. I always thanked her in my Christmas cards and other greetings, but she never took those thank yous, she came to expect them and shrug them away as if the words were not enough for her. But we were just doing what we could. Not to mention the money. She had you pay her son for odd jobs, $500 every two weeks give or take groceries, medications etc. You never wanted to leave the house because you were waiting for Marc to come home. It had been 7 years since he died but you were somehow still waiting. Remember how you wouldn’t let us put the kitchen knobs back on the drawers and cabinets because he was going to do it? Yeah that worked out well. I was getting nervous when you talked like that, but it just became part of how you spoke, not logical or sensical, but a mother’s wish for her dead son to return. Bitter and sad those conversations and again I wonder, did you wish it was me? So, there you were getting this test and that done in April of 2018 trying desperately to make connections with nurses who had known Marc. I guess it was as if they knew him, then somehow you could remember him and smile, instead of just knowing however deep down that he was gone. They knew him and that meant that he was still somewhere in the ether, in a conversation somewhere and that made him as alive to you as he had ever been.

They did a bunch of tests and I was calling your doctor under the radar, so you wouldn’t know because you wouldn’t tell me anything. Finally, she convinced you to let me know what was going on and then there it was. Cancer. Just like everyone else in that house it seemed. First Dad, then Marc, and now you. Admittedly I had somehow already known that was what it was. You were full of anger and sadness and sat still on that couch for seven years. You let it take you over I think. Maybe to get back to him. And Dad. Dad had his heart attack and died just three years before. Exhausted and broken hearted from both the loss of Marc and the loss of you. You disappeared into yourself when he died, and your narcissism grew to heights even I was surprised at. He waited on you hand and foot, trying to get a part of you back I think, but you never returned. He bought you the terribly bad food you wanted, got your medications, looked after the laundry and every other aspect of your life. People told him he looked tired all the time. On the day he died he had spent the afternoon on the phone yelling at the cable company and when he went to the pharmacy to get your meds after that he took the pill the pharmacist gave him but instead of going to the emergency right away as he should have to survive, he went home to you. And he never left you, again did he? Died right next to you in the bed while you slept. Woke you as he seized and somehow you managed to go get the phone to call 911 but it was too late. And your seemingly ungrateful daughter wasn’t answering her phone either. Never mind that we had been travelling at the time, had just gotten home after a terribly long drive and had left the phone in another room by mistake or by happenstance and found your 11 messages the next morning. You never let me forget it either. Brought it up all the time with me in the years since. Like somehow badgering me about it would have changed the history of it. The other neighbors sat with you that night and as we later learned she only feigned sadness on some level, hoping this would be the push you needed to get you into a home and give her the chance to sell yours, real estate agent that she was, so she could travel or whatever. How long did she try to get you to move after that? From the night he died to that last time you went into the hospital she tried and to no avail. We came out the next day, after Dad died. thanks to the magical gift of my best friend Rita. We flew to see you and help you and take your craziness. We went back to our lives after a time and felt like we needed more sleep then it was possible to get. We felt what Dad had experienced for years, in those short weeks and both thought we were going to die. Going home so far away was a blessing. We spoke pretty much every day you and I, and I endured your endless anger and narcissism. Then your best friend from California called one night to ask me to break up with you for her. She didn’t want to be your friend anymore, but she wanted me to tell you because she was afraid of your wrath. I was not surprised, but rather relieved in a way that someone else felt what I was feeling. That you were selfish and angry and basically just not a nice person if you had even ever been one. I agreed to do it but sheepishly backed out at the last minute to her, but ultimately, I did tell you that your friend would not be calling you anymore and your reaction was as common as any other. You were already convinced that she had slipped mentally and that was why this was happening. It wasn’t because she had called you and told you she was scared to have surgery and you told her that she didn’t know what fear was. And that she had no right to feel so dramatic for something so small. You really couldn’t see past the dirty front window and cloudy curtains that you started at each day. It was sad considering you had been friends since you were teenagers, and because she had stood up at your wedding with you. She died a while later and again when I told you, you really didn’t seem to care.

So now its about 5 or 6 moths after that and you are dying of Cancer. We knew we would have to come out to be with you, at least I did as the dutiful daughter. So, Derek packed up his office, I let my work know what was going on, and we were on the road within that week. My bosses told me that as a contractor if I left I might not have a job to come back to, but you are my Mother and being there for you was important. We decided to drive out, mostly because we didn’t know how long we would be there, and the weather was still nice at that time in late July. Derek and Dora, our sweet pup, and I, piled into the car for a five-day trip across the country to see you. You were supposed to have surgery while we were on the road, so my nerves were a bit rattled. We called every chance we could only to find the surgery had been put off again and again. We arrived, and you still had not had the surgery you needed but it was coming shortly. Doctors on the ward, seemed to be in short supply, but cheery nurses spoke of how well you were doing and how much food you had eaten. You joked about only getting the green Jell-O. So maybe it wasn’t as bad as we thought. Maybe you would be okay we could go back to our lives with the knowledge that you were cared for. Certainly, this time you would agree to go to a home. That was my hope and my wish, even though you still waited for Marc to come home and you couldn’t possibly be made to leave there just in case. But I couldn’t go home to my life knowing you were stuck in that house with no help. I tried to find home services that could maybe live in if you were so against going to a place. You know I do understand why you wanted to remain at home, but you never seemed to understand why I would want you to be in a place. We agreed to disagree on that one. But that eventuality never happened anyway. You would never set foot in that house again it turns out.

You were sent for more tests until you suddenly started spewing out bile. Then you had a tube for that, a colostomy bag, and various and assorted other things you were hooked up with to get you “better”. Then that day came when the doctor came to talk to me about your condition and said you were going to see a specialist and after that we would have to make some tough decisions. You had been a bit strange over the course of the treatments and were not always making sense. For a while we figured the Cancer has spread to your brain but in fact it was more the endless meds and treatments making you loopy at the time. We saw the specialist and he gave you the grave news. You were dying and not a lot would be able to help that, in fact there was nothing they could do for you. After that your doctor came to your room and he made me leave go out to speak to him privately. Man, you were upset with me about that. Not like I had much of a choice there, but I went. I had a decision to make. Full treatment (rearranging chairs on the Titanic), or palliative care – what he would want for his loved ones. So, I opted for that one. Rita told me that no matter what decision I made I would have doubts and she was right, I did and do to this day, but I am working on it. So palliative care began. You had been in so much pain that it was awful to watch. I went everyday to the hospital for the afternoons. Most of the stuff they needed to do to you like fix the bed or change your dressings happened in the AM, so the afternoon was good. I would get Derek to drop me off and then grab a wheelchair for myself and wheel myself up to your room each day. I don’t know if you understood that my back was in constant pain and my knees were shot. A herniated disc and osteoarthritis tried to hold me down, but I wasn’t having it. As much as it pained me I went day in and day out to be there for you. We had good days and bad. Days when you would think I was stupid and told me so, and that one day where you said you didn’t want to leave me alone. That was a hard day. I rolled down and waiting for Derek to come get me as usual and sobbed uncontrollably in the front of that entrance I always sat at. I told you I loved you every time I saw you and multiple times when I could. Even if you were not thinking it, I wanted you to know that whatever happened between us didn’t break us or even me, I needed you to know I was there, and you were not alone.

I am open to all things including the “other side” and wondered if Dad or even Marc would come for you. I was fascinated when you said you saw a dog in the hallway everyday that smiled at you as he passed your door. (To my knowledge there weren’t any dogs on the floor visiting but I wasn’t there 24/7). Then the time you told me Dad was sitting in the bleachers – just over there you pointed – and I wondered if that was the day he had come to get you. But nope, you hung on a bit longer. You did see a group of people playing hockey on the roof of the building next door. Hockey was important to you at some point, Dad had played, and you had loved to watch him and the professionals. You said Dora, our Boston Terrier/General Terror, was actually a beaver in disguise. We did giggle at that one. My friend visited you and brought you flowers which was nice, you always liked Jodi. I gave her Dad’s Boston Bruins stuff with you one day and you felt like you were doing a good thing. You fell asleep another day holding my hand and when my hand cramped up I wouldn’t move it. You never held my hand, so this was something I was going to cherish and not give up on even when it hurt. The last day your breathing was odd, rapid and shallow. I tried to ask the nurses what it meant but they wouldn’t say. I fell asleep that day in the wheelchair in your room. In the two plus months this went on I had never fallen asleep no matter how exhausted I was. But that day I did. When I woke and rolled out, you still hadn’t woken up. The nurse left a message at the house that you had passed just as I rolled away but they couldn’t catch me before I got to the elevator. We went back and got your things. As we drove away a literal cloud of monarch butterflies surrounded the car and the space around it. A sign that you knew I was there? Did you wait for me to leave before you went? Did Aunt Heather, your middle sister who died of Cancer 8 years to the day before you, come get you? I was in shock and stayed that way for some time. Though lawyers and bankers and neighbors who got out of pocket. After almost three months we turned the keys to my old house over to a downsizer and packed the car with important stuff and set off for another five day drive back to our lives.

I am struggling and writing helps.  Hopefully this helps me on the road to peace and drowns out the negative voices in my head.

How you surround me now
Like gusts and fits of hurricane winds
I smile at the thought of you
Then memory comes back that you are gone
The lights are dimmer
And the world is lesser in these moments
The anger returns with angry toddler ferocity
Followed by the flood of
The drama your departure evoked
Just one more hour, just one more day
To ask you the things I never did
And to say those things I never said
Denied and beyond my reach
The tempest ends with the same rush
With which it came
And my newfound calm is replaced
By the realization
I am just in the eye of the storm

What appears below is my truth. Those of whom I speak of are not here to defend their actions. All that remains are the ashes of the past. This is dark and sad. Be Warned.

Brother;

You don’t know this about me, as you chose to know nothing about me, but I am almost completely ruled by music. It helps my mood, picks me up when I am down, helps me express my rage in the moment, helps me cope and gives me hope. This point is something I will come back to in a bit. It was just so sad you chose to know so little about me.

You saw me as a fat ass and that was your nickname for me for most of my life ‘FA’. It was something you said all the time, even in casual conversation with Mom and Dad. They never corrected you or asked you to be nicer they just accepted you saying it, I guess at least they figured you were talking to them so they were grateful for that. I don’t know where you anger came from. I carry this shameful experience in the basement when we watched the Eddie Murphy movie ’48hrs’ and I repeated to you one of the more crass lines and you broke from me. We had been playfully fighting and rolling around on that ugly gold shag carpet; just the two of us with Mom and Dad off somewhere else. I remember it so vividly as it was the last time we had contact of the playful kind. After that there was only violence. Did I do that? Was my repeating that dialogue what did it? Caused you to lose your kindness and become this angry person? Or did you really have some kind of mental disorder that popped out there for a moment and then retreated like you did? I blame myself for the fact that Mom felt responsible for renting that movie and she shamed herself and us for enjoying it as it was adult and certainly not for kids. She held that for so long. And evidently so did I. Shame and fear were big in our house. Keep quiet so the neighbors don’t hear. God forbid we have issues. Keep your anger and your tears to yourself and do not express it. I spent my childhood trying to live up to the smart kid, a grade or two ahead of me, who shared my last name that and was so smart. I guess I began believing that I was lesser in everyone’s eyes somehow even then. I don’t remember doing super well in Elementary school, except in the special ed program that they insisted I needed. Turns out we were working at a much higher level in that class, it was just more one on one. Someone paid direct attention to me and I did well. Imagine that! I remember waking up writing freehand and showing my first poem to Mom and her saying – ‘Where did you copy this from? It is wrong to steal someone else’s words’. But they were my words, not someone else’s. Remember how Mom used to say, Marc is the smart one, Linda is gonna get through school if it kills us. What a bitch. None of you knew me or the potential I could have had. None of you gave me the chance to be who I could have been.

I remember being terrified when Mom forced me to wash my hair in the kitchen sink, forcing me under the faucet and the soap running in my eyes. Truth be told I didn’t take showers as you know because I was afraid of the water, afraid of drowning or choking or whatever my tiny child mind feared at the time. So she grabbed me and forced my head under the water while I cried. I managed to get away, falling off the kitchen counter from where I had been pinned upside down and backwards, laying face up under the faucet. I ran into the dining room screaming as she yelled at me to come back and what did you do? You took a picture of me as you howled with laughter. I still have it somewhere. Dark and shadowy, this picture, I am almost doubled over crying, screaming for help that would not come. How the kids on the street loved to tease me about my greasy hair. I mean she did bathe me or maybe I did, so my body was clean but my hair never was. By the way, what were you doing all those hours you would spend in the bathroom when I was sick or otherwise needing use the bathroom?. You would spend afternoons just hanging out in the there knowing I was in agony on the other side of the door. Or you would lock the door somehow and leave it unoccupied with only you being able to get back in. Even Mom and Dad were without in those cases but they never said anything to you about it. You seemed to relish the pain and suffering you caused, like a true sadist.

You didn’t really play outside with the other kids. The occasional baseball game or road hockey in the street where you would always be the hitter or at least in charge. You were always in control and making the other kids chase after the ball down the road. I got to do the ‘commercial breaks’. Walking across the road as cars approached, making sure the other kids were out of harm’s way. That one time that you hit that kid Chris in the head with the baseball bat, I remember that. In your defense you had told him not to stand behind you repeatedly but he was being cheeky and kept doing it. So, you swung the bat full bore and cracked his head. Remember his Liverpool, England Popeye-esque father came charging out of the house to kick your butt and our Mom came out to your aid. They argued in the street and no punishment ensued. But wasn’t that the truth of you whole childhood? You did what you wanted when you wanted. We ate the meals you wanted to eat, watched the TV you wanted to watch. My clothes were your hand-me-downs into my teens, even though I was a girl and built differently. We even stopped going to church then. I remember getting a get well card in the mail because I guess Mom and Dad had told people I was sick and that was why we weren’t coming anymore. I kept that card for a long time always wanting to ask why I got it but I just couldn’t bring my child self to ask. You said you didn’t believe in God. I guess that meant that none of us did either.

I remember playing Monopoly and Gin Rummy with you and Dad. It always ended up with you yelling and freaking out running out of the room. Or winning and gloating for days about how much better you were than me. Again, no reprimand or correction from Dad. Don’t get me wrong. I know I was a drama queen and I know that a temper tantrum was my go to. As I got older it was easier to see that you were doted on, treated with kid gloves and ultimately became what I referred to as the golden child. You could do no wrong. And heaven forbid I said something negative about you to Mom or Dad. I have told a few people about you shoving me up against the wall holding an Xacto knife to my throat while Dad pushed passed you in the hall. That was when I knew for sure that I was helpless in that home. When you let me go and I ran to the car I was crying and asked Dad why he hadn’t done anything and he told me that I shouldn’t have been in the hall when you were. Your moods only became worse as you grew older. You were a sore loser and you made your anger apparent to everyone in that house.

Just recently when we were cleaning out Mom’s stuff I found a letter I wrote. It wasn’t meant to be seen by the family I don’t think. It was simply me expressing a wish to be in a place that was not so hostile. I listed the injustices I experienced and maybe hoped by writing it I could release it. I must have only been a kid when I wrote it. The handwriting is young for sure. But she kept it. In her dresser drawer. Why? Did she think it was funny? Sad? Stupid? I will never know. How many holidays and birthdays did you ruin with your selfishness? I used to think these were all complaints that any sibling would have. Years later neighbors would ask how I survived you. Remember all the birthday and Christmas gifts I bought for you? Things I thought you would like and year after year of trying to find a way back to you. You would see they were from me and either toss them unopened behind you in a dusty pile or just trash them in front of me without opening them. Eventually I did give up on that. You lived off Mom and Dad for way longer than you should have. You were smart but terrified of the world I think and that is why you never did anything with your life. You had a lot of talent on the golf course and with computers. You built that website for somewhat famous jazz band Manteca – that could have been turned into something but you pissed just the opportunity away.

Remember the night Mom tried to stand up to you when you are Dad were going somewhere? I just remember standing at the top of the landing at the front door and watching you grab her by her arm and shove her to the wet ground while Dad continued to get in the car. What power you had huh? When they started taking you on trips and leaving me at home to be cared for by relatives I thought that was normal. And I was grateful for the break from you. I could sleep in and not be afraid that you would turn your stereo on full blast and go outside to work on something. I couldn’t work on anything, study or anything because you knew I needed quiet and you took advantage of the opportunity to be a dick. Remember the day you tried to break my bedroom door down with a golf club? The hole it made stayed in that door the rest of the years that I lived in that room. It was like a constant reminder of your rage and the constant danger I was in.

Mom and Dad took you on solo trips to California, Las Vegas, and Dad took you to Myrtle Beach, just the two of you, for years. I stayed home. Looking back it makes me sad that I was denied these trips but in some ways I don’t mind because I have been to California and Las Vegas both on my own and with Derek and had a way better time than I would have with your moody ass. Aunt Carol, who you visited in California, told me years later that you were a dick to her too when you visited. The typical stuff, not talking, being rude and angry, demanding certain foods and getting them or throwing a tantrum (while in your 20s no less) and just not being appreciative of the gift of being there. I felt bad, when she told me, for Mom and Dad. We did take a few family trips together. Florida, Cape Cod, the Eastern Townships of Quebec, to see the Grandparents. When we drove you always had shotgun. When we flew we never sat near each other, always me with Mom and you with Dad several rows apart. Different hotel rooms with the same set up. I do have one eerie memory of laying under a bed in Cape Cod at Grandma’s house, middle of the day, crying and repeating ‘I am a good girl’ ‘I am a good girl’. Grandma found me, I remember that too but I have no idea what the circumstances were around that. Perhaps my brain is shielding me from something.

One time in the basement of our house we were both down there and I called you a Zit head. Stupid thing to say as the acne was your most major flaw that you had no control over. I managed to get to the laundry room before you caught me and sat against that door while you tried to tear it down. I swear four angels held it closed to save me from what surely would have been my last day if you had managed to get it open. It was some kind of blessing that you didn’t. You did succeed another time in crushing my hand onto a chain link fence where my finger got stuck and I ripped it away scrapping the bone and leaving me with a pretty nasty scar even today. The time you stabbed me in the thumb with a steak fork and Mom had to pry it from the table as it went right through. The time you broke my arm when I was half way out of the car and you slammed my door. The endless bruises and scratches. But Mom told people I was clumsy and in my state of survival even I believed that. Remember when I broke my leg and you told Mom I was faking? How many other violent incidents have I blocked out do you think?

Suffice to say at some point your behavior got away from Mom and Dad and they eventually had no way to rein you in. I had worked on forgiving them for your behavior for a long time but I see now that I still carry so much of it with me. I want that to stop and I want to be rid of the narcissist bricks that you are to me, that I carry on my soul. I always say that I think they did the best they could with what they knew but I want to say now something different than that. They could have done better. They could have cared about their two kids and not just the one. They made this mistake of letting you metastasize over the years into this angry beast. Even in death your obit called you a gentle giant. What a laugh. You were not that. It is easy to say you were accessible to your friends when you don’t have any. How many close friends did you have? One? Two? How many people did you matter too besides Mom and Dad? But people see what they want to see and in the eyes of the world you had to be that for them no matter how untrue it was. Funny no one wrote in the condolence book but Dad’s friends. And one girl who said she liked the chocolate chip cookies you used to bring to Elementary school. Wow, what a legacy you leave.

When the pit bull attacked Sam and I, sitting on the front lawn on that warm September evening. I just remember separating from my body and standing on a few driveways away watching myself scream. Apparently, you came out and beat the crap out of the pit bull and it let go of Sam. Then you punched the brick wall breaking your hand. I had nightmares about incident that for decades after the fact. I felt so responsible but I need to let that go. All I did was take the dog for a walk and come home and sit outside. Some other irresponsible person let their dog out without knowing it and he attacked our dog. This was not my fault. This was not my fault. This was not my fault.

When I started dating Kevin, he was the very first boy to show me any kind of affection. He hit me the first time two months into our relationship. I think I wanted to fix him, and make him a better person. I think I wanted to understand the pain he was in that caused him to hit me, verbally abuse me, take advantage of me. I couldn’t save you and honestly, at that point you were not even an afterthought. I just wanted to be away from all of you. I was 18. Getting out of that house was my goal I think ever since you held that blade to my neck and no one said anything about it. But I also gravitated towards a person who hurt me and I stayed because I wanted to fix him. He loved me he said and I wanted that to be true because no one had ever said that to me. Dad later told me that you would have kicked Kevin’s ass if either of them had known. I doubt that. Wholeheartedly. When I finally had enough and wanted to leave him, I asked Mom for help and she refused me. “You made your bed” she said. I had just come back from my first solo California trip at 26ish and Mom and Dad picked me up at the airport. I remember how Dad gripped the wheel when I said the words that I was leaving him. Mom had told me throughout my seven years in that abusive relationship not to tell Dad about what was going on. And I never did. Together for seven years, married for two and Dad was mad that I was leaving Kevin. I made up an excuse as to why I was leaving, I don’t even remember what it was. But I did ask for help in moving back and was shut down. So, I took what I could carry and forty bucks. I lost so much of myself and my things in that move but I told myself they were just things that could be replaced and that even if they couldn’t be at least I was free of him.

I had a pretty wild year after that. I was pretty reckless with my body, giving it unprotected to anyone who asked and really just hoping to die. You don’t let random strangers pick you up and take you to their homes without telling anyone, unless you have a death wish. But none of the three of you gave a damn. I was essentially blacklisted after the divorce. I was not allowed to come by the house, my childhood home, unless I called first and made an arrangement to see someone. I had to relinquish my key when I got married and moved out. You had ripped my bedroom apart pretty much right after I left to get married and it was made clear to me that I was not welcome back. I thought it was forever with this guy so I didn’t mind at the time. Remember when Nana was dying and Mom wanted you to drive her to see her dying mother at the hospital and you refused? And you refused to let her use HER car because she was a smoker. You got her car even though she worked so hard to buy it. She let you have it and you took it over, I don’t know that you ever let her drive it after that. Anyway, she had to call me to take her and I had just taken two sleeping pills as it was first thing in the morning and I was working nights at the time. I drove over and took her and she saw her mother. While you lounged at home. Stuff like that was normal. No one ever called you on it. Then Dad got sick. Prostate Cancer. I couldn’t bring myself to visit. Between seeing you and the shame of being divorced, how could I? Dad didn’t talk to me for almost three years as a result of that. I moved to Calgary with Derek. Mom and Dad came out once to see me. For four days over a weekend. Just so happened you got sick the week before so they left a bit early in case you needed them. But Mom brought me a gift from home. She brought me a paper bag with a silhouette of a dog on it. Dad gave Derek aluminum salt and pepper shakers that were made from beer cans and had the Maple Leafs logo on it. And then they left early in case you might need something.

Dad had been retired for a bit at that point and Mom was about to retire I think. Dad spent the next 10 years carting you to this appointment and that. Remember that one birthday of Mom’s that you asked her to recite all your medications and she couldn’t do it so you stopped talking to her for two or three years? Remember how she cried about that? Begging you to forgive her for that injustice. Remember also, when you told her that she was the reason you had Cancer, because she smoked? Mom told me that you told Dad that you had nightmares where demons were trying to rip your soul from your body. I believe in that kind of stuff and if I could see it happening to anyone, I could see it happening to you. I have been so afraid to say all of this for so long. The facade they created was flawless. Everyone with enough distance from you believed you were who Mom and Dad made you out to be. Those closer to you got a better picture. Your best friend of 20+ years stopped talking to you. You said it was because of the Cancer, I think it was because he wanted to spend time with his soon to be wife and you didn’t want to compete so you threw a tantrum. He won’t tell me now so I do not know. Your next best buddy, the reclusive albeit gentle person you were close to got married too and when Dad offered him a bunch of your stuff after you died, he declined because his wife could not stand you, perhaps she could see what you were at your core. She didn’t want any of your negativity in her house. That hurt Dad. I felt bad that the delusion of who he thought you were was so clouded against who you really were that he could just not understand her reaction. But I totally understood it and I think other people did too.

When you were sick Mom called me one day at work and told me to get on a plane and come out because you needed a transplant. She was ticked at Derek because he tried to get her to ask me when I got home as opposed to the middle of the workday. But we spoke and she told me that my choice was to get on a plane and come save you or understand that I was no longer a part of the family. To say that now makes me think – how would that really have affected my life? But as the weeks passed and my best friend and husband told me not to, I got tested to see if my blood could be used to replace your poison blood. A Stem Cell transplant. This would mean a series of injections of a fairly new chemical drug to increase my stem cells followed swiftly by 8-12hrs for me of dialysis for four days. Caveat for me being they have not really studied the drug or its effect on the donor. But risks were involved for sure. Now, about a decade and a half later, they know that it can cause leukemia in donors. If it had been a success you would have gotten three more years. Maybe. If it wasn’t a success it may kill you on the spot. (talk about daughter non- grata) or make you sicker or have no effect. So, I went and held my best friend Rita’s hand and got tested. She cried with Derek about it. I told them that I was a 100% match after hearing the odds were about 75% that we wouldn’t be a match at all. You never got strong enough to get my blood. But the lady at the place where you were getting treated called me like she was a collection agent looking for me to pay a bill calling me all the time, day and night telling me to get on that plane and get out there just in case. Imagine what it is like to know that your life is not your own. I am here for parts in their eyes. There was no care or concern for what this might mean for my health. Not to mention the fact that I was living a life free of all of this drama with a job and best friends and a husband. None of that mattered. If Marc was sick I was on deck to save you. And I remember Dad saying, ‘don’t expect any special treatment’ from them if I did do it, Marc was family and it was understood that I would do it regardless of anything. And since I was allergic to tomatoes at the time I would have to work on curing myself before the transplant because Marc likes tomatoes and would not be happy without them in his diet. Are you fucking kidding me? Nope they were not kidding. I told Mom that I had a choice to say no and I think I could hear all the blood draining from her face. She then reiterated the point that I would be outcast forever if that was the case.

When you died, I did cry and I stood my master bathroom and said a bunch of things to you. Then I sat on my bed and read the Jewish prayer for the dead. You had two grand mal seizures that the nurses said made it look like something was trying to drag your soul from your body. Then I remembered what Mom said about your dreams. No one was with you when you died. The ambulance took you and Dad followed in after a while. You died alone in a sterile room, surrounded by strangers who saw people like you every day. You were dragged from your body by the soul but to where? You had no funeral, no visitation. You didn’t want one. Mom didn’t even go to the funeral home to say goodbye. Just Dad. He was surprised your face hair had come in a bit because you were always so fussy about being clean shaven. It had just grown in after you died. Dad was broken by your death. Mom was a mess after. The next four years Dad was a shell of himself having lost his best friend, then his heart attacked him and he was gone too. You and Dad did have good times together and for that I guess I am grateful. I wrote a poem about your death for Dad, in my words, and he carried that piece of paper with him until he died. You would have hated that. That makes me smile. Aunt Carol cried when she read it, after Dad emailed it to her. She knew who you really were. She thought it was good of me to think of you fondly for Dad. But I did it for him not you. In many ways Mom died when you did. She got sicker, less motivated, stayed sat on the couch. She told me you let her hold your hand the day you died. Even though she still had not named your medication for the Cancer. At that point you still were not speaking to her. She held your hand as your headache worsened. Dad took you back to bed and you never woke up at home again. They kept your ashes in the urn on your chair in the basement for a few years before interring it. You are all together there again now and I made a point of saying in Mom’s obit that she had been reunited with her beloved son. I found a picture of the three of you on your graduation from high school all dressed up and put it in front of her ashes and Dads. Now you can be together there forever with them both. I don’t know if you were how you were because you had a mental illness or if you were just this side of evil.

I think about it now and it’s not surprising to me that I feel weak, stupid, fat, useless, unlovable, unwanted, undeserving, even to this day. It’s not surprising that I hide. Don’t share my talent gifts for singing or writing with many. If I read a story about someone like me I would not be surprised to know they had a drug or alcohol problem. That they lived on the street or were dead at their own hand. Or that they themselves had taken the lives of the family that cast them out. I think it is by God’s grace alone that I am still here, still fighting, still thriving. I had to fight my own family’s perception of myself to evolve. I always say that everything I have today, I have because I fought for it and got it myself. Who would have known I would be the strong one, the one who would survive it all and you all.
 
Words have always meant a lot to me. And music. This song makes me think of you. I am not being mushy here. Philadelphia by Bruce Springsteen for all the walking you did in the months leading up to your death. I wonder were you trying to walk away from your anger or the poor life you wasted?

Philadelphia by Bruce Springsteen
I was bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt.
I was unrecognizable to myself.
Saw my reflection in a window and didn’t know my own face.
Oh brother are you gonna leave me wastin’ away
On the streets of Philadelphia.
I walked the avenue, ’til my legs felt like stone,
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone,
At night I could hear the blood in my veins,
It was just as black and whispering as the rain,
On the streets of Philadelphia.
Ain’t no angel gonna greet me.
It’s just you and I my friend.
And my clothes don’t fit me no more,
A thousand miles
Just to slip this skin.
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake,
I can feel myself fading away,
So receive me brother with your faithless kiss,
Or will we leave each other alone like this
On the streets of Philadelphia.

Slimy snake he slithers past me

Without a whisper or a glance

Sneaky in his movement

His victims never stand a chance

Cozies up to those

Who shower him with praise

Despite the darkness of his soul

He drowns them with his gaze

Slither past me snake slime

Gather Intel with your skin

Your true nature you keep hidden

Behind your jesters grin

Someday fate will catch you

The only matter time

Cut off your slippery head

And that smirk you hide behind

This pain is like the scar tissue

of my needle drawn hand

the holes heal over

but the lump lingers

just below the surface

and in my catching throat

how can it still hurt this much

when the words we shared

were so often as sharp as those needles

that poke my skin and seek my blood

my sugar levels rise and my head bows

staring at the hand you held

when you whispered those words that stung

and lingered on your breath like

the scar tissue forming in my heart

Small town termite

Wears her sadness like a trophy

Weathered lines of disregard and suffering

Empty out your pain for all to see

Seek pity from your neighbor

But his lines wear deeper than yours

Competitive sadness is the race of your race

Empty bottles and hearts

No more promises to break

Fill your cart at the big box

With those things you could never escape

Orange flakes of fake cheese dust

Scatter across the floor

And the hand dives back in for more

Broken rubber wheels shimmy and shake

The early death rattle

Blue light special is just an aisle away

It has now been two years since you have been gone and I gotta tell you, it seems like this happened yesterday and some days I find it really hard to bear.  I believe you know this but Mom has really rallied since you had to go.  Tough as nails, stubborn and sometimes downright frustrating to say the least but she is handling her life now.  I know she misses me, or at least the family connection that I am, and I sometimes wish I was closer but mostly am glad to have the buffer zone.  My guilt over that is my own, despite what any neighborhood children might believe.  I am living my life as best I can and I believe if I did go back she would probably be upset.  People are always around her for the most part, but the older I get the more I believe that perhaps she appreciates the lonely part of her life now.  We have our rows but we always seem to come out the other side still talking, you know I could never turn my back no matter how angry or terrible she can be.

 You were good to her, and I am lucky enough to have found someone who is good to me finally.  He is like you in a lot of ways.  And different from you too.  He is salt of the earth like you were, helpful when asked and always willing to do an errand for me if I need it.  He loves me and I imagine you had great love for Mom after all that time.  I am learning that time changes a marriage and what it was to begin with changes as time passes.  We love each other, we call each other out on our stuff and we are honest with each other about how we feel, even if it hurts.  I think I learned the honesty thing from you guys, I remember a row or two between you and yet you stayed together for the 57 years you had.

You and I had our challenges too didn’t we?  Like the year you went through your Prostate cancer battle and I battled the failure of a marriage to a man who victimized me.  Something you didn’t know until much later.  Mom thought it was best you didn’t know how violent my ex was with me so I didn’t tell you then and I guess you were angry that I didn’t come over to visit because the disease kept me away.  I just hope you understand now that I couldn’t be the daughter that failed you while you were fighting for your life.  Plus there was this whole weird thing where I had to call if I wanted to come over like some sort of out of town guest you had to fit in.  There were a whole lot of things I needed at that point in my life that I had to provide for myself and I wasn’t about to ask permission to visit my family.  So I stayed away, for better or worse, I tucked myself away at some low level night job slinging donuts and coffee and sleeping the days away.  To be honest it never crossed my mind that I should see you then, you had Marc and Mom and you guys always seemed like a family to me on your own, like I was a stranger there so I figured (if I thought about it at all) that perhaps you had what you needed.  Is that what you thought about me during that time?  Or were you just bitter that your only daughter didn’t bother to come see you?  Questions I will carry for a long time.

We had travelled from home to see where Derek would be working, that summer, while you were still here.  And after a 12 to 14hr drive back home after seeing the place two provinces away we came home and crashed.  I always asked for the phone to be beside me, every night like clockwork.  But for some reason that night I left it in Derek’s home office and didn’t give it a second thought.  In the morning Derek handed me the phone and said “Your Mom called” as he could tell by checking the caller ID.  There was voicemail but I figured it was a butt dial on her part or something else.  Something small and insignificant.  So I called her back, a bit overtired still and giggly and then she told me that you had a heart attack and had died.  I said the words to Derek standing beside the bed where I was sitting and he looked at me the way I felt.  Like I had been hit by something heavy and was stunned trying to find my way back to reality.  I don’t think I started crying but I was a mess inside.  My first thought was, I guess he got an offer from Uncle Dave, his best friend for his whole life and whom had passed a few years back.  Maybe Dave was waiting on a lush golf green for you to come tee up.  Then maybe Marc was there too and the fourth player was someone I didn’t know and you were going to do a solid 18 with at least two of your best friends.  That thought comforted me and helped me find peace in the initial shock of it all.  Our friend Rita spotted us the cash to get there and we flew out to be with Mom.  Tried to help her through the trauma, trying not to cause too much.  Another row with her and dramatics from me but we managed to get through it.  It was super-hot the day of your funeral service.  I remember I felt bad for the attendants in their wool coats opening and closing the door to the people who were coming to pay their respects.  I remember seeing you, even if only in my mind’s eye, sitting in this chair that no one sat in the whole time we were there.  The way you adjusted your socks and watched the door smiling from ear to ear as people came in.  You seemed surprised by a few of the people showing up and rolled your eyes at others acts of drama.  You watched Mom sitting alone next to the box of your ashes greeting this one and that, most from where you worked for your life that she had not met.  Some family and lots of friends.  A few girls that would obviously miss your flirting, something you passed on to me.  I have to tell you, since you have been gone I have discovered so much that we share in common.  It has been a wild ride to see it all and some of the stuff you passed on you could have back, but in a way it draws me closer to you.  I never felt like I belonged in the family I was raised in, so to see all these things now, be it ailments or whatever, at least it is some type of confirmation that I came from somewhere and there is comfort in that.

I guess the bottom line of this little write up is that I miss you.  Perhaps more than I thought I would, or maybe I just wasn’t prepared for you to go so soon.  I have been angry at you for leaving me to deal with Mom but I can see you in my mind giving me that look.  The look that says as you often would  “Bull Feathers”.  You took care of her for your whole married life and now it is my turn I guess.  I imagine I can keep up with her until one of us gives out.  I still talk to you, I still think of you and I still hold you up to other fathers I have known and meet.  You were a very interesting guy and at the service a weird and inappropriate neighbor asked me to write out your life story for him.  Guess it was that interesting and I am sorry that I didn’t know it all.  I know you lived on a farm when you were young.  That you started smoking as a little kid.  That you spoke French fluently but no one knew that until you spoke it.  You were adopted and didn’t know your birth parents.  You had a brother who was also adopted that you rarely spoke of.  You were our coach while we were growing up in bowling and in baseball.  You were a great storyteller.  You could talk to anyone.  You played the violin and banjo.  You would drop everything you were doing to help a neighbor or friend in need.  You were a fixer.  You loved lima beans.  You could be terrible with money.  You were never a fan of Americans.  You drank Labatt 50 and Heineken beer once in a while.  You owned dogs for most of your life.  You were a pretty fair golfer.  You had a son who died before you.  You were a big contributing part of Expo 67.  You had a wife and a couple of kids and you were still kicking it pretty hard when your heart attacked you.  You had friends and family that loved you more than words.  You were and are loved.  You were and are missed.

Till we meet again,

your daughter, Linda